Safe Spaces
by iNiGmA
Summary: Summer is Harry's favorite time of year. Summer is when he can run, escape. Leave the Dursleys far behind. And the summer before he turns eleven is particularly hopeful. Change is on the horizon. Though the future that awaits him is even larger than the one he dares imagine. And its safety is worth the cost.


_**Disclaimer: **__Harry Potter, not mine._

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**Safe Spaces**

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When Harry looks up, he sees sky.

An endless mosaic of blues and whites that spell out the shades of summer as the song of the wind plays across his face. The air is heavy. It clings to his skin, coats it. Trails down his cheeks and into his hair, where it evaporates into the warm wind.

He is flying.

As close to flying as it is possible to come. Soaring through the swollen air that tastes slightly of lilacs, and something else that reminds him of Aunt Petunia's garden. She sends him out there often. Often as punishment. But for him, it is an escape.

Now, he soars.

His worn trainers scrape across the rubber mat as he swings back and forth. Back and forth. His hair is dancing in the wind of an upside-down world. His eyes are glued to the sky.

Finally, it is summer.

In the summer, he can wander the streets until dusk settles and shadows envelop the pavements. He can run. He can sit in the big tree down Wisteria Lane and live in a world of his imagination where there are no breakfasts to cook nor houses to scrub. A world where the Dursleys live in a dark box and are only allowed out to have dinner and use the loo.

It's a beautiful world. A world he escapes to often. Sometimes, when Dudley is chasing him and the air feels like knives in his lungs. Or when he's standing in the gymnasium, quite alone, waiting for someone to pick him for their team at last, even if it's only because they have to...because then, for the space of one class period, he can pretend he isn't alone. Part of a group. Or in the darkness of his cupboard as his stomach aches with hunger and his eyes sting, and he wonders what it's like to be wanted. Loved.

These moments he spends in his mind. And in his mind, he is always wanted. Always loved, even though he doesn't really know what being loved feels like. He doesn't remember it. Perhaps being loved makes you strong — strong enough to test the world, like Dudley does. He can, because he knows that despite whatever he does, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon will never give him away. Never threaten to take him to an orphanage or drop him at a freak house. So perhaps love is a safety net. Maybe it makes you brave. Brave enough to take whatever you want. Dudley always takes whatever he wants. More than he wants, really.

Harry doesn't know whether he is brave. He doesn't test the world very much; he reckons he tests it enough just by being here, at Privet Drive. Being alive. He only takes a little bit. Only just enough. Surviving. He's long stopped wondering whether surviving is enough. _Enough_ looms in the shadows of the dark corners of his cupboard. Enough is a roof. Heat in the winter. Lunch and dinner in one day. For Dudley, he knows it would not be enough.

But for Harry, it's enough that it's summer.

The days are longer in the summer. The chains holding him to Privet Drive more brittle. There are no gym classes with teams where no one wants him. No long lunch hours where he eats alone in the loo, if he eats at all. No bitter cold that forces him to return to the confines of Number Four before night falls and Uncle Vernon's face turns purple with stabbing anger. No. In the summer, he can escape. He can leave behind Aunt Petunia. Uncle Vernon. He can even slip through cracks that Dudley cannot find.

He smiles, his hair swirling in the wind as he sails through the muggy air, which sings of summer's silver lining. Of freedom. Bursts of laughter. Excited shouts. The steady flutter of a sprinkler. The squeak of the seesaw. The thrum of running footsteps...drawing closer.

Before he can react enough to wonder if someone wants a turn at the swing, he is brought to a jarring halt. Thrown out of the sky. The swing spins around, the metal chain cutting painfully into his shoulder as he's brought back down to earth. And before he can draw breath, Dudley's ugly face is floating above him, mouth turned up into a wicked, upside-down grin. Blocking out the sky.

He tumbles to the mat, landing on the ground at Dudley's feet. Pain shoots through his small frame, along with resentful anger. If the Dursleys weren't so hateful of the idea of magic, he would swear that he's summoned Dudley to him, just by thinking his name.

"Having fun?" Dudley smirks, glowering down at him. "Don't you want to play with us, cousin?"

And Harry can see them now, standing behind Dudley with smirks lighting up their ugly faces too. Piers, Dennis, Gordon, Malcolm. He was so focused on his freedom that, for a moment, he forgot it needed to be earned. Guarded. Reclaimed with every breath, with its boundaries firmly manned. Because, really, there are no safe spaces outside his mind. Not entirely.

Dudley grabs his arm, pulls him to his feet. His grip on Harry's arm looks helpful, friendly, to the watchful eye of every adult who sits along the benches or mans the slides as their small children brave their fears of letting go. But it is tight. Painfully so. Nearly as strong as Uncle Vernon's, and, tomorrow, Harry knows his skin will remember it. He scowls, pulls his arm away, but Dudley doesn't let go.

"C'mon, cousin," he says, still grinning. "Let's take a walk. We don't want to tie up the swings, do we?" And he is steering Harry away, out of the playground, away from the prying eyes of every adult. And Harry knows what's coming, has avoided it successfully for several weeks already. _Harry Hunting. _But Dudley's gang is closing in around him, and this time he cannot escape.

And they are out — out in the abandoned lot which used to be a supermarket before it was torn down and never rebuilt. And now it's just an empty field, slowly being reclaimed by nature in the shape of tall grass. And Dudley's grip on his arm is iron. They are drawing closer. And Harry can't believe he has allowed this to happen. _Not again. _Because for a moment, he let himself be free. Because he is so, _so_ tired of running.

But then Dudley lets go of his arm so he can draw back his fist, and, in that instant, Harry is free. And he runs. He is small, fast. He slips through the crack between Piers and Malcolm, and he is off, weaving through the tall grass as their shouts ring out behind him. Freedom again, even if it must be fought for. In _Harry Hunting_, catching him is half the battle. And _that_ is a battle he nearly always wins.

He runs, leaps through the sharp grass, and dreams of next year. Of Stonewall High; a place where Dudley cannot go. Perhaps there, he will be safe.

Perhaps, it will be even safer than summer.

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_**A/N: **__Ahh, hi guys! Another little shorty. I know, I can't stop. (I'm writing the TP sequel, I swear, I'm 19 chapters in if anyone's looking. :P) Anyway t__his__ was written for the __Platform 9¾ __drabble contest. The theme was Summer Holidays. Clearly I'm obsessed with Platform and any time they have a contest I come running. Also lately I seem to be obsessed with present tense — it's endless fun! Anyway it did all right: Overall Fave and a few things, so that was cool!_

_Hope you guys liked it. Feel free to leave a review, I love those a lot! :)_

_Rina_


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